


The Noose Around Your Neck

by CantStopImagining



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, F/F, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:52:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5412374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantStopImagining/pseuds/CantStopImagining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She leans on Trish, and Trish leans on her just as hard, and they’re some unspoken super duo who save the world one mean mother at a time." Teenage Jessica/Trish angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Noose Around Your Neck

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from The Cave by Mumford and Sons. This has been in my drafts for what feels like forever. I've put warnings but honestly there's nothing graphic.

Even before the accident, Jessica Jones wasn’t easy to like, let alone love. She knows it. She’s always had an attitude that her parents tell her (told her) will get her into trouble. She was never the kid wearing frilly pink dresses and wanting to play with her mother’s make-up; she was in the back yard dissecting a frog, or ripping the heads off her brother’s action figures (“they’re not so super now are they?”). She thinks she might have grown out of it, if it hadn’t happened. But it did. And she at least can acknowledge that it wasn’t the accident that made her the way she is.

(Except physically, of course.)

Jessica doesn’t have friends at school, spends her time blending into hallways and trying to keep out of trouble. She pretends she doesn’t notice the way people stop talking when she walks into a room, or the hum of mutters that follow her down the hallways. She tries not to attract attention. Mostly, she’s scared of what will happen if she doesn’t.

Trish is popular, but not the kind of popular who tramples on lesser beings. Maybe on the surface, but Jessica sees her helping a handicapped kid through the halls one day, and she knows it isn’t a publicity stunt because no one’s following her with a camera. She thinks maybe that’s a worse kind of popular; the kind that’s so achingly perfect that it makes your teeth ache.

(She knows better than to believe anything about Trish Walker’s life is perfect. She’s the one who dresses her cuts and bruises and shields her from her mother’s money-hungry talons.)

They don’t mix at school - on the rare occasions that Trish is actually there and not busy filming or doing a signing or whatever other bullshit her mother decides is more important than her academic career - because they’re of two entirely different species, and Jessica gets it. She doesn’t hold it against her. She wouldn’t want to be caught dead with the people Trish hangs out with, anyway.

“Your sister’s a freak.”

“She’s not my sister.”

It used to hurt, but now she gets it. She’s more than a sister. Trish wouldn’t want the same fate for Jessica as has befallen herself, she wouldn’t want her to have to share blood with the psychotic bitch who they live with. If she doesn’t defend her ‘freak’ status at school, it’s not to protect herself, but Jess, who just desperately wants to get away from it all.

(She’s afraid of what would happen if someone started something with her. She’s afraid that before the jock could even make his first move to slam her against a locker, she’ll have broken every bone in his hand.)

Jessica scribbles away at homework, and helps Trish with her science projects, and keeps her head down until the worst is over. When she has nightmares - nightmare, singular, always the same one - Trish sneaks her downstairs and they share steaming mugs of hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream and for a few minutes everything’s okay. Just for a while, she’s human again. She leans on Trish, and Trish leans on her just as hard, and they’re some unspoken super duo who save the world one mean mother at a time.

She thinks Trish will be alright. She thinks if she can just hold the pieces back together long enough, she’ll be alright.

-

She’s started drowning out the sound of fighting with loud music and liquor. She wishes she could have stayed at her old house, in her old room; she lives better alone.

Trish is a watercolour of reds and purples and yellows that she covers with thick layers of foundation, and long-sleeve shirts even in the summer. She doesn’t want Jessica to protect her. Jessica doesn’t think killing Dorothy will do much good for either of them, so Trish is probably right. Still, each new bruise is something new for her to feel guilty about.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles,” Trish says, juts her bottom lip out, tries to look strong. It’s difficult to do when you can see someone else’s finger marks around her throat.

-

It’s a Tuesday night when she finds her, the first time, puking over the toilet in her en-suite bathroom, and at first Jessica thinks it’s her mom again, that she’s been forcing her again, but the empty bottle of pills on the plush white rug tells her otherwise. It isn’t the first time she’s held her hair back whilst she puked, but it is the first time she’s had to call 911. Something inside her snaps, as they wait for the ambulance, and she mutters a prayer to a god she doesn’t believe exists, is wholeheartedly grateful that Trish’s mom is out.

“I’m never going to be enough for her,” Trish says, crumbling against the toilet bowl, “I’m never going to be enough for anyone,” and Jessica holds her tighter, wishes she could see that she’s enough for her and screw what anyone else thinks.

“You’re the most beautiful girl in the world,” she whispers instead, threading her fingers through golden strands of hair, and hoping one day Trish will believe her.

-

Trish’s first boyfriend - first serious boyfriend - is an asshole jock who wears t-shirts that are too tight, and pants that show his boxers when he walks. He’s always got an arm around her waist, fingers brushing her hip bone, and it makes Jessica’s skin crawl. His name is Kyle. Trish’s mom simpers around him, takes them out to expensive restaurants (always has a photographer on hand to snap shots of them at the dinner table), tosses her head back and roars with laughter practically every time he opens his mouth. It isn’t so bad when Jessica thinks he’s just there to promote Trish, but the idea of her actually wanting to spend time with him makes her feel sick.

“You’re just jealous,” Trish hisses when Jess confronts her about him. 

She scoffs. She’s not jealous. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She just can’t bear to think of that asshole with his hands on Trish.

A few weeks before prom, she finds Trish crying in her bedroom, blood on the sheets, and she whispers, “he didn’t force me,” but she doesn’t even look like she believes her lies anymore.

Reputation be damned, the next time Jessica sees Kyle’s smug little face, she slugs him one in the mouth. He loses a tooth. He’s lucky he still has a jaw.

Trish doesn’t say thank you, but she does start spending nights in Jessica’s room. They wordlessly sleep together, Jessica curled around her, even trying to protect her in her sleep. Not that Trish does sleep. For a long while, she spends nights awake crying, and Jessica pretends not to notice, and as soon as it’s morning neither of them mention it. 

-

She goes into hospital with a broken cheek bone and a swollen eye socket, her punishment for eating a slice of cake. Dorothy cries afterward, some lame attempt at showing remorse but Jessica knows better - she’s upset because of the amount of money she’ll lose. Trish will be out of work for weeks. She goes to a private hospital where the doctors care more about their pay checks than where she got the injuries from, and when Dorothy flippantly tells them she walked into a door, they don’t question it.

At first, Trish is relieved. They sign her into a private room for three days recovery, and the thought of being away rom her mother, of being somewhere she can eat jello and watch tv and do normal kid things (warped as it sounds) makes her almost pleased. But then Dorothy roots herself to a chair by the bed, and snatches away the tray of food they bring her, and she thinks this must be what prison feels like. Dorothy is all smiles for the medical staff, of course, and the charade goes unnoticed.

Jessica isn’t even allowed to visit.

They give her strong painkillers to combat the intense pain that sparks through her nerve-endings every time she tries to move or speak. Trish likes them. If she takes enough, she can sleep for hours and hours, and drown out her mother (who talks through publicity and events and work work work as if it isn’t her hand that’s put Trish into a hospital bed; as if everything is fine). The world becomes fuzzy and she has no responsibilities, and her body finally feels light enough, she finally leaves behind that ache of not being good enough.

After that, she realises there’s a pill or prescription for everything; little yellow pills that help her through charity events she doesn’t want to go to, blue ones that help her sleep through the nightmares, appetite suppressants that mean she never has to be forced to throw up again. She rides through it all on a cocktail of pills and feels better than she has in years. Her mom is thrilled. Trish tries to ignore the side effects - the nights where she wakes up in a cold sweat and can’t find anything but empty bottles; the men (boys) who she’s let fuck her in hotel rooms and bathrooms and yes, once in her bedroom, with Jessica asleep in the next room, Trish barely conscious enough to react to it, much less say no; the morals she’s left behind in trying to find her next hit.

Ultimately, when Jessica carries her out of the house two days after her eighteenth birthday and insists they’re never coming back, she does it to save Trish from herself, as much as to save her from Dorothy. She threatens the woman into terminating all It’s Patsy! contracts, dropping all management agreements, letting “Patsy” die in the bright pink bedroom that Trish is never returning to.

Then, after they’ve secured an apartment, she does her best to fix Trish.

She promises no rehab. 

The first night in their apartment is cold and dark, and furnitureless, and they’re curled up on the floor, bundled in blankets and throws and watching the moon out of their curtain-less window. Trish is a wash of greys and purples and pinks, and her hands won’t stop shaking, and she hasn’t said a word since they sat down. Rather than the fierce sense of victory they felt when they first walked out, Jessica feels a pang of fear for the future, the great unknown that seems to expand endlessly around them, out through the huge bay window and into the starry night.

Trish shivers, and Jessica discards her own blanket, wraps it firmly around her. It isn’t the cold. She’s in withdrawal. She’s spent the morning vomiting, and now her stomach is empty, she’s only just stopped dry-heaving. Her eyes are ringed so dark that she looks much, much older than eighteen, though somehow so tiny and childlike amongst their blanket fort. Her hands are sweaty when Jessica takes them in hers.

“I can’t believe we did it,” Jessica says, after a long while of just sitting in silence.   
At first she thinks Trish doesn’t hear. She doesn’t move, her eyes trained on a spot past the window, the moon reflecting gently on her harsh features. Jessica looks only at her. She moves her mouth mechanically, but no sound comes out, and her eyes flutter closed, new, fresh tears sliding down her hollow cheeks. Jessica swallows, fights the urge to wipe them away.

“We did it,” she repeats, and she squeezes Trish’s hands tight.

Trish looks at her, and her eyes are glassy, “we haven’t done anything.”

She falls asleep buried in the crook of Jessica’s elbow, firm against her ribcage. She already promised for the third, fourth, fifth time that she would look after her, that she wouldn’t go to rehab.

The promise is already sounding like its built on lies, on unsolid ground. She has the best intentions but even Jessica Jones can’t work miracles. 

The truth is, she doesn’t know how to look after her.

-

Jess takes a job at a donut stand in the mall. It’s boring and her jaw hurts from hours of smiling, handing out flyers and trying to get customers. They don’t need the money, but she refuses to just rely on Trish’s trust fund. 

Trish, on the other hand, is in no state to work.

She gets home after work one evening to find Trish sprawled out on her bed - Jessica’s bed (they have furniture now! And curtains! Jessica doesn’t draw the line completely at using Trish’s money, she just wants to be able to pay her own way, too) - passed out in a puddle of her own sick.

It’s been months. Three, to be exact. They’ve lived here three months, and she’s done her best to keep Trish clean, but it’s hard. Harder work than she ever imagined it to be. Her eyes sting with tears. She thinks maybe she should quit her job, maybe looking after Trish is a full-time commitment and she shouldn’t have left.

(She had been doing better. Been. Past tense. Then again, what is she supposed to do cooped up in the house by herself? Jessica feels guilty for that, too.)

Jessica pulls her comforter up over Trish’s sleeping form, but not before checking she’s breathing, and that she has a pulse. It’s become second nature. She drags the blanket over her, and smoothes out her hair. She contemplates cleaning up the sick. Decides against it.

She pads through to the living space, gets herself a glass out, before deciding to drink straight from the box of OJ. There’s an envelope on the kitchen island, already opened, discarded, and as she finishes her first gulp of juice, she picks it up, turns it over in her hands.

Hope you’ve settled in. Love, always, your mother.

It’s oddly unthreatening for Dorothy, but then the fact she’s tracked them down is problematic enough, and makes Jessica taste bile in the back of her throat. No wonder Trish is lying in her bedroom, fucked up. No wonder she’s collapsed back in on herself after months of hard work.

-

“I have to go,” Trish croaks, shakily turning her head to face Jessica. Yesterday’s make up is smudged down her face, soft shards of blues and greens and blacks. Her eyes are swollen and red. She looks like she’s been to hell and back (maybe they never left).

“You’re not going anywhere,” her voice is calmer than she feels.

“I have to, Jess. I’m so tired.”

Her eyes drift closed and Jessica wants to tug her near, to hold her tight until she doesn’t hurt anymore, but she’s afraid of breaking her further. She thought she could do this. She can’t. She never could. The fairytale wasn’t supposed to go like this; the prince rescues the girl from the tower, slays the dragon, and she lives - they live - happily ever after.

Trish isn’t happy. She hasn’t been happy in a long long time.

“What can I do?” Jessica whispers, her voice breaking. She can feel tears in her eyes. She holds Trish at arms length, rubs her thumb over her cheek bones, hollow and cold and smeared with make up.

“Let me go.”

They collapse against each other and Jessica holds her so close, presses her body firmly against Trish’s, disobeying her orders. She can feel her heartbeat, erratic and shaky, her body so fragile and frail. She can’t stop thinking I was supposed to save you. I’m supposed to save you. Over and over. 

“I’m going to sign into a rehab,” Trish finally says, pulling away from her. She rubs at her eyes, smoothes her hair down.

“I promised—“

“And you’re not breaking your promise,” Trish hums, holding Jessica’s hand, “I am.”

-

When she comes back, Jessica watches her sleep. The apartment was cold and lonely without her. She spent the days feeling like a cuckoo clock - mechanical, going through the motions, doing what she was supposed to. No feeling behind it. Now, she won’t let Trish out of her sight.

“You gonna be there all night?” Trish mumbles, her voice heavy with sleep.

Jessica’s own throat is dry. She forces a smile, feeling uncharacteristically shy, “sorry.”

Trish smiles back, pats the bed, waits while Jessica unfolds herself from the chair, hesitantly crawls in.

They fall asleep wrapped in each other, and for the first time, Jessica finally feels like this place might be her home.


End file.
